"One is never too busy to entertain a guest," Maleficent says. She takes a brief moment to survey the room that the young man, whose presence crackles in the room like a gas lantern - a foreign fire. On this, Maleficent's, world, fire is as a dog - it must be well-trained, well-heeled to be allowed within a home, caged within the hearth or bound to short, well-trimmed wicks. But in other worlds, she has seen fire spun into glass, raging bright in hot spheres like tiny suns, its constant hunger fed by ever-flowing streams of gases or energies that live in metal. This young man reminds her of such fires. Angry, for being bound.

The room is well-kept, its hearth well-tended. Perfectly hospitable. She dismisses the final remaining servant with a curt word.

"I do not believe we have been formally introduced," she says, finally. Such poor manners, for the one of lesser status not to make the greetings first. But, of course, if he is as foolish - or at least, as ill-educated as she hopes, she may gain the second piece of the puzzle she needs to make this evening truly worthwhile. "My name is MALEFICENT."

At the declaration of her name, the fire gutters in the hearth, the windows rattle, and beyond, out in the large hall where the massive front doors stand, the bolts draw shut of their own accord. But that cannot be heard in this room.

The young man full of fire has taken faerie food; he cannot depart this castle until sunrise, now.